Mr Mallow shrugs. ‘Cherry Hollow didn’t have a weird tradition or a curse.’
‘No, just a dark, evil entity who tormented guilty people.’
‘What do you make of the missing poster of the girl?’ asks Mr Mallow.
Graham has always been mildly impressed with Mr Mallow’s ability to change the topic of the conversation in a single breath.
Graham pauses before speaking. ‘Hastily done. Not a professional job. No photo of the girl. Scribbled in pencil. Not exactly a decent attempt to look for her.’
‘You say she’s not actually missing?’
‘Unconfirmed. I was unable to get a straight answer from anyone. She used to live on Blackberry Farm with her father, Frank Hammel. People seemed to be very sketchy with the details, almost like no one wants to talk about her at all, like she didn’t even exist.’
‘Sounds like this village is keeping secrets.’
‘It’s a high possibility. Yes.’
Mr Mallow pockets the sketch and the poster. ‘Well, it’s too late to start asking questions now. I’ll spend tonight doing my own research. You have Wi-Fi, I presume?’
‘I may be retired, Mr Mallow, but I still have the basic amenities.’
‘Very well.’
Graham brushes some dirt from the knees of his trousers. ‘Fine. Research it is. Let’s get this blasted thing back into the garage. Hopefully, it won’t decide to hang itself back up in the tree overnight.’
Chapter 18
SOPHIA
Bethgelert, Wales, 2015
It took several minutes to bust a hole in the plasterboard with the wrench. If I had something with a little more heft to it, I could have broken through in half the time, but the wrench eventually did the trick. I coughed and spluttered as particles and splinters of plasterboard flew into the air and danced around me, also covering me in a thin layer of grey and white dust.
My dad was going to kill me when he found out I’d busted a hole through the wall.
My dad. How was I supposed to explain this to him? Shit.
People were arriving tomorrow to stay in the cottage. Double shit.
How was I meant to cover up this mess? Triple shit.
I cursed my recklessness and lack of thought, but there could have been someone trapped behind the wall, so I couldn’t leave them there, could I? It was too late to do anything about it now.
Once I created a hole big enough to fit my body through, I half expected a dirty head to pop out of the wall. I never had my dad down for human trafficking, but he was a member of the weird village committee who held their share of secret meetings, so I guessed anything was possible.
I used my phone and shone the beam of light through the hole, holding my breath to stop myself from inhaling the tiny dust particles. Beyond the hole was a spiderweb infested space, but further on it widened into a …
‘No way!’ I said, ducking through the tight hole.
Once I navigated the webs and dust, I crouched under a low beam and emerged into a room. An actual whole other room, complete with faded, outdated wallpaper and furniture. There was a bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. The whole space looked frozen in time, like it belonged in a museum.
Shining the light around, I studied the simple decoration, the plain bedspread, the faded carpet. What the hell was this room? Did Dad know about it? Was he the one who boarded it up? There was even a window. I walked over and peered through the dirty glass, expecting to look out onto the yard below, but I saw nothing but darkness. The window must have been boarded up from the outside, or closed off somehow.
I’d never noticed an extra window before, but I’d always known there was somethingoffabout the hallway. Itwas a dead end and had always looked out of place, like there should have been a room attached. It was right there, as clear as day, and I’d missed it.
I wandered over to the low bed. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of dust. How long had this been boarded up? I couldn’t explain it. I may have only discovered this secret place, but it felt as if it were a place just for me, to hide away from the world when I needed a little peace and quiet. But why was it boarded up in the first place? What was the reason? Did someone live in here once upon a time?
I cast my mind back. As far as I knew, my dad had always owned Rosemore Cottage. It was a family-owned farm, going back decades. In fact, John Hammel would have lived here.
